The Last Man
by VickyVicarious
Summary: What if Darcy hadn't walked off and left Elizabeth alone after his first failed proposal? What if he came back to explain in person? Based off the proposal in the 2005 movie. HIATUS.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, so it's another one-shot-type-thing centered around Darcy's first proposal. Sorry; I can't help it! I like that moment!

I used the proposal scene from the 2005 movie, because I don't actually own the book or the 6-hour movie, although I've read/watched them both once each. I also consulted the letter Darcy gave Elizabeth; I found the entire text of it online. **But** all words are my own; I just consulted the letter/scene for the background.

I tried to keep the level of archaic language down in this one, and it is kinda low compared to _All In A Name_, but I couldn't help but write in it _somewhat_, and my colon use is probably **way** too high. Sorry 'bout that.

Kind of alternates POVs between Elizabeth and Darcy, but in third-person limited, not first person.

* * *

Elizabeth Bennet slumped back on the wall of the temple, breathing harshly and staring into the distance, eyes wide and unfocused.

_Mr. Darcy…_ She could scarcely believe what had happened. Proud, arrogant Mr. Darcy could never be… Was he truly in love? And with_ her?_ She had always believed him to utterly despise her. After all, taking into account his actions whenever they were in the same room, it seemed to be obvious; the way he would always stand aloof and yet still gaze upon her disapprovingly, his awkward attempts at conversation when he clearly thought talking to her beneath him…

Perhaps in any other man, Elizabeth would have attributed the standing back to shyness, the gaze to be admiring, the stilted chats to be a product of nervousness – but this was _Mr. Darcy!_ Of course he wouldn't be nervous or shy. More likely, she had correctly interpreted everything he'd said, and he simply wished for a wife very clearly beneath him in ranking, one that would never stand up to him. Yes, that was it.

If Elizabeth had been thinking straight, she would have realized at once how absurd that idea was (both because he would not wish for a wife raking so far below him, and because she would never meekly obey anyone, and Darcy knew that), but she was still reeling from the tumult of her emotions, which had been in a dizzying uproar since her conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam, and were only further incensed and confused during her conversation – argument? – no, her _exchange_ with Mr. Darcy.

That was the real reason Elizabeth was leaning back on the wall, breathing deeply and staring at the rain. She was utterly confused and shocked and angered and saddened all at once, and scarcely knew what to do; so she did nothing.

-xxx-

Fitzwilliam Darcy, striding away around the temple with quick, determined strides, was in a similar boat. He had gone from eager anticipation to the most desolation he had ever experienced, in a conversation that couldn't have lasted more than five minutes; even more proof, had he needed it, of Elizabeth's complete power over him.

Without his knowledge, Darcy's quick, sure stride slowed, and soon he was standing perfectly still under the pouring rain, his fists clenched by his sides.

She had refused him. She hated him. He was the last – the _last man_ she would ever…

Darcy pounded one fist into the other hand, his face suddenly contorted in anger. "The goddamned _last_ man!" he snarled.

How could she – did she truly hate him so much, that she would prefer a man like Mr. Wickham over him? Or even Mr. Collins? Elizabeth may have been drawn in by Wickham's tall tales, but she knew full well the extent of Collins' bumbling; but even so, Darcy was left to be the _last man?_

Darcy swallowed hard, the anger on his face shifting into a strong determination. He would _show_ Elizabeth that he was not, nor would he _ever_ be, the last man! He began walking again, even faster than before.

It occurred to him as he walked that perhaps he ought to be careful not to go about this the wrong way; after all, hadn't Elizabeth also complained about his ungentlemanly conduct?

In truth, Darcy had no idea of what he would do to make things right; what _could_ he do? He had a dim idea of correcting her impressions of Wickham, and further explaining his reasoning behind separating Miss Bennet and Bingley – but beyond that he knew nothing that could approach fixing this monumental mistake of his.

He glanced up for the first time from the ground moving rapidly under his feet when he felt the rain stop hitting his head and shoulders, and was stunned to realize that he was, once more, standing in front of Elizabeth. His feet had turned him around and carried him back to her without his knowledge or assent – and it seemed they still had a mind of their own as they continued to carry him closer.

She was slumped back on the temple wall for support, hands bracing her upright, her sodden dress clinging to her skin and her dark hair hanging down heavily. Darcy's eyes, along with his feet, seemed to rebel from his control, though he couldn't really blame them for being so utterly fascinated with her profile.

He knew the exact moment she glanced up and saw him, for he could not look away; their eyes met and she opened her mouth as though to say something –

Darcy would never know what it was, however, because before any sound could escape her parted lips, his feet came to a halt in front of her, barely two steps away. His hands (joining the mutiny), reached out to grasp her shoulders and gently tug her forward. Elizabeth had been leaning her weight on the wall, and so when he pulled her from its support she stumbled a little, almost literally falling into his arms.

Darcy stood still for the shortest, tiniest, most miniscule instant, staring down at her; she raised her head up to meet his eyes (her own sparkling more than ever), still looking completely shocked – and he could bear it no more. Finally taking the hints the rest of his body had been sending him, Darcy bent his head, and captured her lips with his.

And he kissed her.

-xxx-

Elizabeth was afraid that she might be lost in a dream. How else would she find herself proposed to by Darcy? Proposed to, or… kissed?

She hadn't expected him to return; in fact, judging from the slightly surprised look in his eyes when she had first glanced at him, he hadn't expected it either. However, his surprise had quickly faded to be replaced with something else – what she did not know – as he continued walking up to her.

Elizabeth had opened her mouth to say something; it would not have been angry, she was sure of that, for however she felt now, confusion and an uncharacteristic sorrow were at the height of her emotions, her passionate fury already died out. But it did not matter, anyway, as the words – whatever they had been – never left her lips.

Because Darcy had stopped in front of her, very close, and the look in his eyes suddenly became clear to Elizabeth: he was gazing at her, not with his customary look of boredom or aloofness, but with a naked, open face that showed the true force of his love for her.

It took her breath away.

While Elizabeth was entranced speechless by the emotions in Darcy's eyes, his hands were busying themselves by reaching out and gripping her shoulders, pulling her forward. Elizabeth had not expected this, and stumbled forward into him, colliding with his chest. She was astounded, and couldn't seem to properly grasp that this was real; she was not leaning against _Mr. Darcy_, hands splayed on his chest to support herself, his own arms on her shoulders.

But she was.

Elizabeth slowly raised her head up to look at him, and was suddenly shocked once more by the pure emotion in his eyes. She stared into them, entranced again, and didn't even notice them approaching her, the distance between them lessening, until his mouth descended upon her own, and he began to fiercely kiss her.

And without thinking about it, without even realizing what she was doing, Elizabeth began to kiss back.

-xxx-

At some point, his eyes had closed. Darcy knew that only because he could no longer see Elizabeth's face, her own eyes, before him. In fact, he was not aware of anything else but her.

Her slender, petite body, pressed against his own, her hands resting on his chest.

Her long, thick hair, and the small of her back, underneath his hands, both wet, but warm and sending sparks down his fingers straight to his heart.

And her lips, under his, moving with him, as she kissed him back. Kissing back. Elizabeth Bennet was kissing Darcy. _Kissing_ him.

It was almost more than he could bear, and he had to break away before he did something he would regret. Although he personally would not mind at all being forced to marry because she was compromised, Darcy had a sneaking suspicion that Elizabeth would feel differently. Not to mention, she was a gentleman's daughter, and Darcy's love, and deserved much better. Deserved only the best.

Darcy's hand on Elizabeth's hair lifted free, and he moved it to cup her cheek, staring into her eyes. Perhaps _this_ was how he should have proposed. He confessed that he found it a much more enjoyable experience…

Darcy cleared his throat softly, trying to regain his voice. At the sound, Elizabeth trembled slightly under his fingers, but she did not look away.

Darcy took a deep breath, and began again. "Miss Elizabeth Bennet," he said, in a voice that stopped just short of shaking, "I have long known you to be the most charming, beautiful, well-mannered, lively, intelligent, _accomplished_ woman of my acquaintance." Elizabeth smiled tremulously as she heard the emphasis Darcy had placed on the word 'accomplished', and remembered the discussion he, Caroline Bingley, and she had in Netherfield on what made a woman accomplished.

Darcy took heart from the smile, and one began to grow on his own face as he continued (and, though he did not know it, further disconcerting her with his heretofore unseen dimples), "I can assure you that none of my actions or words were ever intended to be hurtful to you, and though I do not regret trying to save my friend from what I believed would have been an unhappy marriage, I do regret being so wrong. I concede to your greater knowledge as her sister; perhaps, having been so used to the flirtatious ladies of the ton, I mistook her polite propriety as a lack of interest. For that, no apology will be enough, but I am resolved to write to Bingley immediately, explaining the truth of the matter."

At the mention of Jane, Elizabeth's smile dropped from her face, and Darcy's faded accordingly, but she had yet to pull free from his arms, and Darcy even fancied that her eyes, which had hardened at the mention of her sister, softened when he apologized and resolved to act.

Darcy closed his eyes briefly, wishing that he did not have to recount this next part; but as long as Elizabeth believed Wickham's stories, she would never trust, let alone love, him. And he needed at least the hope that she might. He needed to know that he had done all he could.

So Darcy steeled himself, and began: "As to your complaints about my treatment of Mr. Wickham, I do not know what he told you, so I will simply inform you of the facts.

"Mr. Wickham was the son of my father's steward, and as a boy he was my close friend, and like a second son to my father; indeed, he was my father's godson. We grew up together, and even went to Cambridge together, provided for by my father. When my father died about five years ago, he had secured in his will, along with one thousand pounds, an education for Mr. Wickham as a clergyman. He had always hoped Mr. Wickham would enter the church. However, Mr. Wickham had grown more and more disreputable and less my childhood friend in Cambridge, indebting himself and indulging in many immoral activities. Therefore, when (after his own father's death) he informed me that he did not wish to become a member of the clergy, I agreed to pay him instead the sum of three thousand pounds, and considered all connections between us severed."

Darcy swallowed multiple times before he could continue. Elizabeth was staring at him, wide-eyed, though she had uncharacteristically not yet said a word. "Mr. Wickham had implied that he would be studying the law with this money, and though I did not believe him, I acted as though I did. However, two years ago, he applied to me for yet more money, saying that he had concluded that the law was not for him, and now he wished to be ordained, if I would just give him the money. Naturally, I refused, and any semblance of friendship or good regard dissolved instantly as he quite berated me, to myself and doubtless to others about town. However, we did not encounter each-other again until this past summer."

Darcy paused, his hand unconsciously smoothing across Elizabeth's cheek. "I must beg a vow of secrecy from you regarding this next part of my tale. No one must know of what I am about to tell you… Promise me."

Elizabeth nodded shakily, not looking away from his eyes, and whispered as if in a daze, "I promise."

For a brief moment, Darcy's face lit up in another brilliant smile; but soon the topic he was addressing darkened his face, and he took up a thunderous expression, looking away from Elizabeth to glare at the wall. Without realizing it, he let go of her and began to pace as he spoke. "My sister, Georgiana, is ten years my junior, and when our parents died, she was entrusted to my, and Colonel Fitzwilliam's, care. She left school about a year ago, and went with a companion to Ramsgate. Mr. Wickham followed them, for he had a previous attachement to Mrs. Younge; we were most deceived of her character. With her help, he… Wickham so enamored himself of Georgiana that she believed herself in love, and consented to elope with him."

Darcy missed Elizabeth's gasp of shock at this news, and paced faster as he continued. "She was but fifteen years old at the time, and was easily tricked; but it is due to her that I know of, and was able to prevent, the elopement. I arrived at Ramsgate several days earlier than expected, and upon seeing me Georgiana could not bear to hide the affair from a brother that she loved and looked up to almost as a father."

Elizabeth observed with awe how Darcy's features softened into a loving, indulgent expression when speaking of his sister, but hardened once more as he added, "Mr. Wickham was undoubtedly after Georgiana's fortune of thirty thousand pounds, but I am sure that revenging himself upon me was far from a deterrent. We of course dismissed Mrs. Younge, and wrote Mr. Wickham, sending him out of town. I could not do more, for fear of my sister's reputation and her feelings. She is still greatly changed by the experience; always shy, she has become withdrawn to the point of barely communicating with strangers, and trusts few."

Darcy spun to look at Elizabeth, his eyes wet. "Please forgive me for telling you of such distressing events; I only wish that you understand the reasons behind my apparent cruelty to Mr. Wickham, and to your sister, as these were your main objections to my suit. As to those against my character – I cannot explain those away, but," he approached her, taking her limp hands in both of his, "I beg of you, Elizabeth, to reconsider your judgments of me, for I – I am deeply, irrevocably in love with you, and I would be most honored if you consented to be my wife."

Darcy gently lifted Elizabeth's hands and kissed each palm with a surprising tenderness and innocence that contrasted with his hungry kiss before.

-xxx-

Elizabeth was quite sure that she was not dreaming, for even she, with her active imagination, could never have conjectured this. No; this had to be happening, which meant that Mr. Darcy truly had proposed to her, truly had told her the most outrageous stories, truly had kissed her…

Had _kissed_ her!

Without conscious thought, she pulled her hands free of his, and one palm swung up to slap his cheek, hard, in a purely instinctive reaction to the belated realization that a man (not even her betrothed) had stolen a kiss.

A loud _smack_ echoed in the air (the rain had ceased at some point during Darcy's explanation, so it was all the more striking), and Darcy bowed his head, not meeting her gaze. It was only then that Elizabeth remembered the events surrounding the kiss, and her own eager participation; her cheeks flushed bright red.

However, she could not seem to speak; not to apologize or to explain herself, or even to respond to his proposal – his _second _proposal! And despite all she'd already said! It occurred to her, in the silence that followed, that Darcy must think her slap the answer to his question, which only further embarrassed her, to the point where Elizabeth was quite sure she might never speak again.

After several long moments, Darcy raised his head; there was a large red mark, in the shape of a hand, on one cheek. Upon seeing this, Elizabeth wished fervently that she was capable of sinking into the ground; she turned her head to avoid his gaze, and in doing so missed the single tear that slid down his cheek to fall to the ground.

-xxx-

Darcy could barely look at her, his entire being suffused with a deep sadness and desperation; but he had said all he could say, and done all he could do to change her mind, and yet Elizabeth still slapped him for daring to ask again, and when he raised his head, she could not even bear to look at him, her disgust was too great.

Darcy's emotion choked his throat, and he had to glance away, clearing it several times before he could speak again; and even then it was merely a hoarse croak.

"The rain appears to have stopped," he said, not looking at Elizabeth. "If you will allow me to escort you to the Collins'?"

He could see Elizabeth glance at him in surprise, startled doe eyes briefly flitting over his face before returning to the view.

"I – thank you," she faltered, "But I am sure I can make it on my own."

Darcy closed his eyes briefly, pain welling up inside him and threatening to spill over. "No, I insist."

He reached out before she could step away, and took firm hold of her arm; after a moments hesitation, Elizabeth looped it through his, and they set off.

-xxx-

The walk was not as long as it seemed, and soon they stood, hidden from the Collins' house by the stone wall.

"Farewell, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth said, with a note of finality in her voice. She knew that he would never wish to speak to her again after her treatment of him today; and she was still unsure of whether she even wished him to. She had not had the time to properly absorb all of what he'd said, and was still in quite the state of shock.

Darcy, however, heard the finality, and believed it to be a distinct warning; Elizabeth was telling him that she had heard him out, and still did not wish to associate with him. She was done with him; the still-stinging mark on his cheek attested to that.

But he could not let her go without a word, and even as she let go of his arm, he gripped hers and leaned in close. "God bless you, Elizabeth," he said quietly, and let go.

Elizabeth stood there a moment longer, and he almost hoped that she might be leaning closer; but suddenly, without another word, she stepped back and ran away into the yard.

Darcy watched her go, and watched as she was welcomed into the warm house by a concerned Mrs. Collins, before turning and beginning the walk back to Kent along the darkening, muddy road.

A slight smile crossed his face, and he chuckled, shaking his head. "The _last man…_" A single tear followed the words.

More tears slipped down his face as he walked, sliding over the tender spot on his cheek, and Darcy continued to chuckle brokenly.

The last man, indeed.

* * *

I am debating whether or not to leave it just at this, or to try and continue writing on from this point. I think this could conceivably change **or** not change any of the later events. So... I'd like your opinions on that, please.

Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

So, as you can see, I decided to continue. And thank you for being so... uh, _vehement_, about it. ;) It was very convincing. However, despite all your eager entreaties for me to continue (wow, I just can't stop the fancy-speak, can I?), I'm still kinda nervous about 'messing with a good thing', so I'd still love to know what you think. And, on top of that, I'm just less sure than usual about a few aspects of this chapter. I'd say which ones, but that would be giving them away...

Some of you (four at last count) have given me some very good suggestions, at least three of which I'm planning on incorporating into my story later on, maybe even the next chapter. So... thank you.

Um, I think that's it, except that I feel the need to clarify: I _have_ decided to mess around with the events of the story, and it will not be the same from here on out. However, I still maintain that it _could_ have happened more-or-less the same, and if you prefer it that way, just look at the last chapter as a one-shot, and don't read on. Otherwise... have fun and be sure to review!

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**jen:** Well, as you can see, I decided to... Thanks for the review! :)

**cee: **Wow, thanks! Extra points for "deign" and yes, I think I will. :) Thank you so much again. I always thought that comment would hurt him the most - it's a pretty darn harsh thing to say, after all. Aw, my imagination is brilliant! Thanks again (again)... :)

**Courtney:** Thanks!

* * *

* * *

Elizabeth awoke feeling luxurious, well-rested, and recovering from a wonderful dream. She stood with a smile and walked over to the window to be met with a beautiful day that perfectly matched her mood, sunny and cloudless.

It was only when her eyes wandered over the stone wall not far from the house that she remembered the events of the night before, and she instantly lost all enjoyment in the day, her stomach threatening to heave and her balance suddenly failing her, as she sat down abruptly on a nearby chair.

-xxx-

Darcy woke, feeling gritty, too hot under his covers, aching all over, and quite possibly the second-most miserable he'd ever been in his life. Second, of course, because the previous night topped the list.

He stood unsteadily, making his way to the window and observing the beautiful day with a sour expression. It seemed as if the world only wished to taunt him; even more so since it had begun raining again as he walked back to Rosings, and he had been forced to trudge through nearly two miles of muck in the raging downpour. Although, that had given him the benefit of being too preoccupied with getting out of the rain to dwell on… things. And once he had reached Rosings and made his way to his room (leaving a sizeable mud trail) Darcy had been far too tired to do anything but collapse in his bed and sleep. But now he was free to think of it, and he could no longer prevent himself from remembering –

Darcy was disturbed from his increasingly melancholy thoughts by his footman entering just in time. The man noticed his master's oddly flushed cheeks and glittering eyes, but put it up to dreams of his lady-love; after months in Darcy's service it would have been impossible for him to note the attraction he felt.

-xxx-

All through breakfast Elizabeth felt awkward and paranoid, jumping at every small noise, convinced it was Darcy come to – to – well, she was not quite sure what, but she was certain that it would be horrible. After all, the man, the supposed _gentleman_, had kissed her the previous night! They were not engaged!

_Although he certainly wishes to be…_ Elizabeth could not help thinking, before forcibly shaking such thoughts from her head. The reasons behind Darcy's proposal were unimportant. What mattered was the way he had proposed; how he had insulted both her and her family, not to mention taken advantage of her shocked state, and even refused to apologize for what he had done to poor Jane…

_But he __**did**__ apologize; he simply did not regret trying to protect his friend; can I blame him for that? And what of Mr. Wickham?_ The same stubborn little voice protested, and Elizabeth could not help but bite her lip, unable to continue mocking Darcy when remembering Mr. Wickham.

Had she truly been so wrong about him? Elizabeth had, after all, always prided herself on being able to discern people's true characters; surely she could not have been so far off the mark?

But all the evidence seemed to prove Darcy correct; from simply the complexity of his tale (who would be able to come up with all those details on the spot?), as well as the nature of it – however little Elizabeth might like Darcy, she was sure that he would never make up something so horrible happening to his sister; not with the way his face had softened as he spoke of her. And, of course, there was the way that Wickham, while eager to tell her his tale of woe, never dared to announce it publicly…

But he was such a nice, charming man! Surely he could not have done such horrible things!

Elizabeth was interrupted from her thoughts by Mr. Collins pausing in his long dissertation, (on the magnificent and plentiful, and very expensive, windowsills at Rosings) to ask where she had been the previous evening.

She instantly flushed red, and stuttered a little in her reply, but he was oblivious. "I-I was on a walk, sir, when I was held back by the rain."

Of course, mention of the rain prompted him begin anew, this time on the state of the esteemed and condescending Lady Catherine's grounds, and Elizabeth soon tuned him out, returning to pondering what Darcy had said.

-xxx-

Breakfast was a horrid experience for Darcy, with his Aunt Catherine persistently questioning him about where he had disappeared to the previous night, Colonel Fitzwilliam joking good-naturedly with him about the same, and his own stomach rebelling against the sight and smell of the food, making him quite nauseous.

Added to all of this, Darcy was beginning to feel increasingly warm, no matter how many glasses of water he drank. Finally throwing down his fork, he rose from the table and strode away without a word, leaving behind his untouched food and astonished Aunt, paused mid-sentence.

Darcy had stood from the table with the intent of taking a walk through the grounds to breathe in some fresh air and hopefully calm himself; however, he had hardly made it outside before a great weakness swept over him, and he was forced to lean back against a convenient wall simply to keep his balance. The world swam before his eyes, dizzying him until he squeezed them shut.

His thoughts were in a muddle, and for a few short instants he was completely insensible; finally, fearing for his health, realizing that perhaps it was not simply heartbreak that plagued him, Darcy opened his eyes and straightened off the wall, with the intent of going back inside to his room and lying down.

However, his brief moment of clarity soon passed as, in straightening off the wall, Darcy caused his head to rush once more. A great heat swept over him, and his eyes turned quite glassy as he staggered forward a few steps, falling into an illusory world.

In reality, Darcy was still standing in the near-deserted path entrance, on a bright sunny day with few clouds.

However, his feverish mind interpreted things quite differently, so that it seemed to him he was standing in the temple again, with rain pouring down around him, and watching Elizabeth approach him, looking amused and calling his name. At the sight of her, Darcy smiled widely.

Had Darcy not been so fully in the grips of his delusion, he may have noticed that Elizabeth's voice was much deeper than ever before; and her shape was quite less pleasing and feminine, with indeed no light curves to feast his eyes upon; and her hair considerably shorter, her chin rounder, her face older, and of course her eyes not the ones he had always so admired: in short, Darcy's 'Elizabeth' was in reality his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had followed him shortly after he left the breakfast table.

"Darcy!" he now called smilingly, drawing closer, "What prompted that? I don't think I've ever seen our dear Aunt so offended. A great trick, to be sure, but from _you?_ The model of politeness?"

However, the Colonel's smile soon dropped off his face when he took in the sight of his cousin; Darcy's cheeks were flushed bright red, his eyes glassy, he was swaying unsteadily, and wore a rather disturbing grin.

"Darcy? Are you alright?"

At this innocent question, Darcy laughed and stepped forward, his odd smile growing wider. Looking slightly demented, he began to speak, somewhat incoherently. "Ah! My dearest Miss Elizabeth… Charmed to see you here again; yes, it's been quite an experience at this spot for us both, has it not?" He chuckled again, his smile fading as he gazed sadly at Fitzwilliam. Then, however, he visibly rallied his spirits, and gestured at the sky. "Horrible rain we're having, is it not?"

At first, when it became apparent that Darcy was mistaking _him_ for their acquaintance, the lovely Miss Elizabeth, Fitzwilliam was amused, but when he began to talk about the nonexistent, if apparently heavy, rain, all mirth left him, and he stepped forward, taking his cousin by the arm.

"Yes, terrible," he said indulgently, "Aren't you tired, Darcy? Let's go back to Rosings, alright?"

He reached out to take his cousin's arm, but Darcy snatched it back, muttering something about being 'the last man'.

Darcy, in yanking his arm away from Elizabeth's hand (though he wasn't quite sure why he had done so, as he would love nothing more than to be held by her and to hold her in return), upset his precarious balance, and stumbled back several steps. When he finally caught himself, a furious heat spilled through his body, and suddenly he was advancing forward, shouting through his rage how she did not have the right to touch him, not after how she had so brutally rejected him…

Somehow, though, in the process of walking forward, his legs buckled, and the world tilted sideways, colors shifting and lights sparkling across his field of vision.

He heard a familiar voice cry his name as if from a great distance, but he had no way to reply, as he was floating away from his body, and all was fading to black…

-xxx-

After breakfast, Elizabeth had taken advantage of the beautiful day to go for a long walk, hoping to clear her head. However, she had been so caught up in her thoughts upon leaving, that she had unwittingly begun to walk down the same path that led to the temple; and she was so preoccupied, that it was not until she began to climb the hill leading to it, that she realized where she was.

Elizabeth instantly wished she could turn back, but her own nature would not allow her to; in turning and leaving, she would be seeming to avoid the thoughts that plagued her mind, and Elizabeth prided herself on never backing down from a challenge. Surely _this_ was a challenge if there ever was one!

Finally reaching the temple, Elizabeth walked forward to the place she had stood last night, and leaned on the wall once more, closing her eyes. Almost instantly, her imagination conjured up the image of Darcy standing in front of her, eyes speaking of tenderness and love, soft voice beseeching her to accept him…

She quickly opened her eyes, and drew a hand across her face with a sigh. How could she dwell on such things? She hated the proud, disagreeable man, and always had!

Elizabeth was well on her way to storming back down the hill in a fit of righteous anger and indignation (of the type that had been, perhaps too often, directed towards Darcy in the past), when she was brought up short by a single thought: _But why?_

Why _did_ she hate him? Elizabeth had always been so sure in her hate, that when someone tried to question it, she dismissed them on the spot; but hadn't Darcy given her good reason to question it now? What _were_ her reasons?

Elizabeth laid them down, trying to justify herself: he was proud; he was rude; he looked down on all as below him; he believed that everything would work out the way he wished, simply because of his money; he had cruelly mistreated Mr. Wickham; he had similarly interfered with both her sister, Jane, and his dearest friend, Bingley's happiness; he had insulted her entire family; he had taken the liberty to kiss her and embrace her, in a most ungentlemanly manner…

At this, though, Elizabeth ran out of reasons; and, due to her inherent fairness, she felt obliged to think over the ones she had set out – to, in a fashion, play the devil's (in this case, Darcy's) advocate and attempt to refute her own arguments.

The most obvious place to start with was Wickham. Indeed, after what she had heard the previous night, Elizabeth wasn't sure why that even belonged on her list of grievances. While there was little true evidence either way, the passion in Darcy's speech – not to mention the incredibly personal nature – touched something deeper within her than Wickham's simple list of misfortunes. At the time, his manner had seemed deeply saddened, but brave; but now, having witnessed the true depth of Darcy's feelings on the subject, Elizabeth could scarcely believe that she had ever been fooled by Wickham's shallow acting.

"Yes," she murmured aloud, "Yes, I do believe that Mr. Darcy was right all along about Mr. Wickham's true nature; and I can hardly blame him for his treatment of the man now; indeed, I think I ought to commend him for his restraint!"

Having easily dismissed one of her main reasons to dislike Darcy, Elizabeth set out to prove the others similarly wrong; and, if she could not dismiss outright most of them, she found that she could at least concede that they were merely human faults, and not a fair basis for any deep dislike.

For instance, Darcy's considerable pride: yes, it was not a _good_ trait; but was it necessarily a _bad _one? After all, Elizabeth possessed quite the pride of her own, which she had to admit had been slighted – and could that be another reason for her dislike of Darcy? Elizabeth, upon further thought, was quite ashamed to admit to herself that, yes, a great foundation for her dislike had been built when Darcy offended her with his comment about her being 'barely tolerable'. Yes, she had joked about it, but with a sister like Jane, and a mother like Mrs. Bennet (who was so favorable to her eldest and youngest two daughters that she dismissed the second-eldest and middle out of hand) Elizabeth could not help but be a little bit self-conscious about her appearance, though she tried not to be; so Darcy's comment had unwittingly cut her deeper than she'd shown. What was it she had told Jane? _"I could easily forgive **his** pride, if had he not mortified mine."_ That was truer than she'd known; and as such, Elizabeth thought it only fair that she forgive Darcy of his pride, if she wished to forgive herself of her own.

Of course, thinking about his pride led Elizabeth to think about Darcy's habitual rudeness and his looking down on all the people of her acquaintance, which was less easy for her to forgive. However, now that she was actively attempting to find ways to excuse him, Elizabeth could see that, perhaps, much of his rudeness and apparent scorn derived from his refusals of conversation or dancing; he had not actually slighted anyone other than her, and had, on the whole, been perfectly polite; simply distant. And had Darcy himself not explained this just several days previous? _"We neither of us perform to strangers." _Perhaps – laughable though it seemed – Darcy truly was shy. And if so, Elizabeth could hardly mock him for such a fault.

On the topic of performing to strangers... Thinking with a clear head, Elizabeth could freely admit that Darcy had good reason to insult her family, though it was hardly politic to do so. Her mother she could barely defend; Mrs. Bennet was, quite frankly, a nervous fool. Although she loved her daughters, she knew little about how to care for them, beyond marrying them off; and, due to her love of gossip, lack of modesty or privacy, and limited match-making skills, it was easy to imagine why Darcy would not care for her. Another of her mothering faults was clearly evident in both Kitty and Lydia, who, while Elizabeth agreed deserved to be out, she had to admit were not nearly as mature as they ought to be. Both were the most outrageous flirts, at the very best bordering the line of propriety, and far too obsessed with the militia. As for Mary... while there was nothing wrong with her quiet nature, her habit of quoting Fordyce's sermons and making generally discouraging and depressing (while at the same time superior) comments was certainly disconcerting and rude. Her piano-forte skills, too, were not as good as she liked, and it did not recommend her much when she played in public, especially not when she played somber pieces at something as upbeat as a ball, as she was wont to do. When it came to Mr. Bennet, Elizabeth was far less eager to admit fault, but even she could not deny that her father's habit of hiding in his library or study, rather than participating in any social activity, could be seen as quite rude; although it was merely his distaste of fools (such as his wife) and idle conversation (such as his wife's) that led him to do so – much like Darcy, Elizabeth realized with amusement.

And as for his attitude about his wealth – well, Elizabeth may resent it, but even she could hardly deny that it was the way of the world. Those with money and status generally got what they wanted more often, and a man as wealthy and well-bred as Darcy had probably never been refused a thing in his life… before now.

Elizabeth stood at this thought and began to pace, unwittingly following the same path Darcy had the previous night as he explained Wickham's misdeeds to her. She was fully aware that she had been avoiding two issues in her mind; that of Mr. Bingley and Jane, and of the highly inappropriate embrace and kiss she and Darcy had shared.

Exhaling harshly and halting in place, Elizabeth closed her eyes tightly and buried her face in her hands. Though she wished nothing but to avoid thinking about these two issues, she could not simply leave them alone; and so Elizabeth began attempting to sort through her feelings.

First, the way Darcy had separated Jane and Bingley. Even just thinking about it, a wave of anger on her sister's behalf swept through Elizabeth – but, trying to think logically, she ignored it. What Darcy had done was most certainly wrong – there was absolutely no denying that. However, he had done it with good intentions; after all, if it had been in her power to save Charlotte from her loveless marriage to Mr. Collins, would Elizabeth not have done the same? Of course, the situations were highly different, and unlike Darcy, Elizabeth had talked things out with her friend and was willing to accept her decision and support her. But even so, Elizabeth could not truly despise Darcy for acting as he had.

However, despising or not, Elizabeth could not truly forgive Darcy's foolish actions any time soon; the only thing that might persuade her to do so was if he reversed them – which he had promised to do. The only thing that remained was to wait and see if he followed through on his promise… though Elizabeth had the odd feeling that he would.

And now, having thoroughly gone over every other topic, Elizabeth could delay thinking about Darcy's – and her own – indecorous actions no longer, much as she wished to. So, with an inward sigh, Elizabeth finally confronted it.

What Darcy had done was wrong in the eyes of any respectable society – he had taken liberties that, had anyone observed them, would have forced them into a marriage of convenience, simply in the interest of preserving her reputation. Elizabeth knew that she was perfectly within her rights to slap him for taking advantage of her in such a way – though perhaps she ought to have done it straightaway, rather than waiting until after he had re-proposed, the way she had.

And yet… And yet Elizabeth could not find it in her to be angry at Darcy. The slap the previous night had taken with it the extent of her shock and anger; now, when thinking about the event, Elizabeth was filled with a feeling akin to – unexpectedly enough – nostalgia. The memories of the kiss brought back the feelings she had experienced, held in his arms with his lips pressed to hers: the way that, for a short time, Elizabeth had truly believed his love for her, because she could feel it in his arms around her, could taste it on his lips.

That kiss had made her feel so unbelievably cherished and loved, while it lasted, that Elizabeth could not help but to respond, as hypocritical as the action may have been; and now, remembering it, she could not help but smile almost fondly, and press two fingers to her lips, before snatching them away as she realized what she was doing.

It had been her first kiss, and it had been beautiful, but it was not as if it would ever happen again, given the way she had spurned Darcy. Elizabeth was shocked to realize that she actually felt a bit disappointed at this thought.

Shaking _that_ emotion out of her head, Elizabeth turned and began the walk back to the Collins' house.

And so it was, that in a single long walk and a deep examination of her feelings, that Elizabeth Bennet lost all hate towards a certain Mr. Darcy. She most certainly was not in love with him; but she was willing to concede that he was a true gentleman that deserved her friendship at the least; and that he was far (and climbing farther) from being the last man she would ever wish to marry.

Sadly, this realization had come one day too late.

-xxx-

Darcy tossed and turned in his bed for many hours after his cousin had, with the help of several servants, managed to get him there following his collapse. Of course, the sight of the dignified man being carried urgently through the halls of Rosings attracted quite a bit of attention, and the doctor was immediately called for.

Upon examining Darcy, he determined that the man was a victim of a dangerously high fever; most likely the result of walking home through the pouring rain, becoming drenched and probably getting hypothermia. It was, the doctor said, a miracle that he'd managed to fight the fever and function normally as long as he had; his collapse was long overdue.

When Fitzwilliam conveyed the fact that Darcy had in fact been experiencing delusions before he passed out, the doctor reassured them that it came hand in hand with the fever, and was not a sign of any greater disease. In fact, he told them, Darcy should be perfectly fine, providing that his fever broke soon.

Truly, _that_ was what those at Rosings were worried about the most; for if Darcy's fever did not break within the next 48 hours, he was as good as dead. Once it did break he would be well on his to recovery – but as it was, he was still well within its hold.

The entire household, from Lady Catherine to Fitzwilliam to even Darcy's footman, blamed themselves for not noticing his illness sooner, and prayed for his recovery.

However, the man himself was unaware of all this, trapped in a confusing world of heat, strange colors, pain, and a pair of cold, angry, disgusted – but still incredibly fine – eyes.

* * *

An added note: I have little-to-no medical knowledge, so I'm pretty much just guessing about the delusions and fever and so on and so forth. I do know that back in those days, a fever was a serious business that people died from, but that's about it. It's somewhat important to my plot, for various reasons, so I hope that it's correct. And as for Darcy's behaviour when deluded and whatnot, I know it's ridiculous, but just bear with it anyway please.


	3. Chapter 3

Hi, I'm back again! And sorry to disappoint you all... there is no direct Darcy/Elizabeth interaction in this chapter, and there won't be for some time. Sorry!

Let me repeat once more that I know nothing about medicine and less about medicine back then, so you must bear with my vague descriptions and anticlimactic-ness.

I'd like to thank you for the numerous reviews. I've already gotten twenty-freaking-nine! It's very exciting. However, based on the fact that I've also been put on 28 story alerts and at least five people have marked this a favorite story (seriously, wow guys! Thank you!) I'm expecting a lot this time around too, you hear me? :)

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**hopefulro: **Thank you! I'm glad you like the title. :) Ooh, and extra thanks for giving me that link. I am downloading it as I type.

**Anushca: **Thanks, very much! I do indeed know what you mean. :)

* * *

Upon arriving back at the Collins', Elizabeth was immediately accosted by a concerned Mrs. Collins. "Oh, Lizzy, where were you? We were all so worried again – and after yesterday, too!"

Elizabeth was taken aback by this unusual display of worry and, even more, by the way her friend's hands were fluttering about in the air, in a manner reminiscent of Mrs. Bennet.

"What is it, Charlotte? I simply went on another walk, as I often do; surely _that_ could not have been what transformed you into my mother!"

At that, Charlotte's hands immediately fell to her sides and she stopped her flutterings. "Elizabeth Bennet, that is just mean!"

With a smile bordering on a smirk, Elizabeth pointed out, "But it got you to stop, didn't it?"

The good wife of a parish would never be so ill-mannered as to roll her eyes, and so surely that is not what Charlotte had done upon hearing Elizabeth's statement, much as it may seem otherwise.

"Yes, yes, Lizzy, you are very clever. Now do come inside before Mr. Collins sees us; for I told him you were in your room, suffering from a headache, and he would vastly disapprove should he find us out here."

Finally realizing the reason for her friend's anxiousness, Elizabeth smiled gratefully and began to walk inside with her. "Oh! Thank you my dear friend; I'm afraid I should not have been teasing you, for you were only looking out for my welfare. But I must ask – why is it necessary for you to deceive your husband about my whereabouts? I was, after all, just taking a short walk."

Charlotte sighed, "Oh, Lizzy, I merely wished to save you from another speech, that is all. Surely you are grateful! After all, this morning during breakfast, you seemed quite disturbed." Elizabeth blushed, and Charlotte eyed her thoughtfully. "That is, if you were even paying attention! But of course you were; what on earth could you be more fascinated in than Mr. Collins's diatribe against young ladies walking out alone?"

Elizabeth's blush only deepened at this, and she opened her mouth to respond; but was cut off by the topic of discussion's loud call for his wife, echoing through the air. With a sigh and a quick apology, Charlotte left her friend to go see to her husband, and Elizabeth completed the walk back to her room in solitary thought.

Yes, what _was_ more fascinating? In truth, the young lady could come up with a number of examples, many of which not very fascinating themselves, but the one currently at the top of her list was Mr. Darcy.

Now that she had sorted out her feelings towards the gentleman, Elizabeth was even more mortified than she had been the previous night. _None_ of her actions or words had been justified, possibly excluding the slap – but the timing of that was surely the worst possible!

Though Elizabeth was forced to admit that, despite knowing all she did now, she most likely would not accept the man's suit, she had been most cruel to him, and mere politeness dictated that she apologize – although that was certainly not her only motivation; no, guilt had a great part to play as well.

But how could she explain this to the man? Such an address would undoubtedly be a rather long one, and polite society would never give them privacy for such a length of time; for Elizabeth doubted whether she would be able to continue her walks in Hunsford now that Mr. Collins had spoken so vehemently against them, and she could not ask her friend to hide any more walks from him. She had already done more than enough.

Besides, it was not in any way certain that Elizabeth would even come across Darcy on one of these walks now; surely his only motivation had been to spend time with the object of his affection, on previous jaunts. And now he must hate her too much to wish to walk with her, of that Elizabeth had no doubt.

How, then? It did not take Elizabeth long to decide that a letter might be the only viable option left. It might be difficult to get into Darcy's hands; but a letter was definitely easier than achieving privacy for the length of time necessary to explain all her feelings.

Indeed, the more she pondered it, the more Elizabeth favored the idea of a letter, for varied reasons. In a letter, Elizabeth would be able to formulate her words any way she preferred, and take her time doing so; which would certainly be a great advantage. Similarly, she would be able to begin anew should she not like the general tone of her words.

However, the most tempting reason was that, in writing a letter to Darcy, Elizabeth was not in any way obliged to see him. The longer she pondered the events of the previous evening, the more horrified she became at her own behaviour, and she thus became certain that to stay in Darcy's company any longer than necessary would be pure torture to the both of them; in fact, with this in mind, Elizabeth went in search of Mr. and Mrs. Collins to beg arrangement for her to leave to Hertfordshire as soon as possible.

When questioned about her reasons for such a desire, Elizabeth merely expressed a great homesickness that had recently plagued her; and in a humorous aside to Charlotte, added that with Jane gone, her father must surely be going out of his mind with desire for intelligent company!

Though her friend and cousin were reluctant to see her go, they allowed themselves to be convinced, and Mr. Collins was able to arrange for Elizabeth to ride out with the post the very next morning.

Though startled by her cousin's remarkable success (and secretly suspecting that he had been much happier to arrange it than he showed) Elizabeth was equally pleased for it; and henceforth retreated to her room, taking up pen and paper.

The task of writing the letter was a long and difficult one, and more than once, balled-up pieces of paper were thrown furiously into the fire; but, after several hours, Elizabeth became convinced that she had managed to phrase her thoughts as best as they would ever be; and after hesitating for a long moment over how she should end it, Elizabeth decided upon a phrase and signed her name beneath it, then folding up the letter and addressing it to one Mr. Darcy.

Now her only difficulty would be getting it to him. As they had not been invited to dinner that evening, and she was leaving the next morning, Elizabeth was clueless on how to get the letter to Darcy; and torn as well between happiness that she would not have to see him even for the short length of time necessary for a letter to switch hands, and an odd feeling of regret about the same.

However, she quickly shook that emotion out of her head, and left her room in search of Mrs. Collins. Finding her dear friend alone in the sitting room, Elizabeth approached her and quietly asked for a moment.

"Of course, Lizzy," Charlotte replied, confused by the odd seriousness that adorned Elizabeth's features. "But what is it?"

Elizabeth bit her lip, still somewhat uncertain as to whether this was the best way – but she could think of none better, and so she resolved herself and held out the letter. "Would you do me a great favor, Charlotte, and deliver this letter to one of the party at Rosings? I had planned to do so myself, but it appears as though I will not get the chance."

Charlotte easily took the letter, "Certainly Lizzy, although I must say I am surprised. I had not thought you and Miss de Bourgh to be particular friends – but what is this?" For she had turned the letter over and discovered the recipient's name written on it in Elizabeth's feminine hand.

"Lizzy!" Charlotte exclaimed, shocked, "Is this entirely proper?"

Elizabeth smiled ruefully, her mind instantly going to another thing that involved her and Darcy and was far from proper (but was exceedingly pleasant). "No, I daresay it isn't, but I'm afraid that this contains matters important enough that I am quite willing to bypass propriety, if you will aid me in my attempt. They are very serious, Charlotte, and I beg you to – "

"Of course I will help you!" Charlotte interrupted her with a smile, "Although I confess myself to be quite curious. What brought about this serious breach of decorum – love? Perhaps if it were the Colonel I would understand, for he is witty and kind; but Mr. Darcy? I had always thought you hated him."

Reminded of her slanders against the man's character, Elizabeth blushed deeply, "I confess I did as well, until quite recently; but I am trying to repair my wrongs and make a friend out of him, or at least an indifferent acquaintance. That is all this letter contains; but I am afraid I cannot elaborate, Charlotte, not without betraying a confidence."

As one might expect, this reply only fueled Mrs. Collins's curiosity, but she could see that Elizabeth was determined to speak no more of it; so she remained silent. Standing and gesturing for Elizabeth to follow her, she led the way down the hall. "Come, Lizzy, I think it is nearly time for dinner, and as it is our last together for the time being, I think we shall take it separately from my husband."

Lizzy laughed, and they did so, dropping the subject. It had not, as Elizabeth thought, gone unnoticed by Charlotte how she neglected to say anything about love; but Charlotte could see that her friend was quite firmly in denial, though _she_ had known Darcy to greatly admire Elizabeth since at least the ball at Netherfield.

_Perhaps she is finally coming around, and none too late!_ Charlotte thought, pleased.

-xxx-

_"…you were the last man in the world I could be prevailed upon to marry! …the __**last man!**"_

Darcy found that the Elizabeth of his dreams was alternately much sweeter or bitterer than the original; either she was (rarely) professing her own love for him, or (frequently) shouting incredibly hateful words in his face. Occasionally, he would see her with Wickham, which distressed him most of all; but most commonly repeated was the phrase above.

It was, then, a great shock for Darcy when, upon drifting into consciousness for a brief moment, he saw a figure above him, and a soft female voice was whispering that he would be all right. However, once he forced his eyes fully open, he was able to fuzzily discern the features of his cousin Anne, eyes dark with sympathy and worry.

Darcy only caught sight of her for a brief moment or two, though, before he lapsed back into sleep, even as he tried to say her name. More hours passed, with him fully unaware of his surroundings, despite the bustle surrounding him; not even the loud worrying of his Aunt Catherine could wake him.

In fact, Darcy slept right through the night, waking little and then only in delirium, until, in the very early morning, his fever finally broke, to the relief of all. He continued to sleep through breakfast, through midday, and it was only mid-afternoon when he woke, right as his cousin was walking through the door into his room, a letter in his right hand.

"Ah, Darcy!" Fitzwilliam cried, "Finally awake, I see! Aunt Catherine was beside herself worrying; I believe she remarked on your impertinence in getting sick and dying before you were properly wed to her daughter." However, despite his light words, the Colonel's face was slack with relief, and he sat down heavily in a chair next to the bed.

"Here, have some water before you try to speak," Fitzwilliam handed his cousin a glass of water, and briefly glancing at the letter in his hand, waved the servant that had been watching Darcy out of the room, telling him to fetch the invalid some light repast.

Darcy finished the water in very little time, and handed it back to Fitzwilliam, his brows drawing together in confusion. "Wh-" – he cleared his throat – "What happened? I have the awfulest headache. And I don't think I can remember anything after breakfast."

"I'm not surprised," Fitzwilliam remarked offhandedly, "considering that you collapsed outside the moment you left. Good God, man! Couldn't you just tell us you felt ill like a civilized person instead of walking around with a high fever?"

"Fever?" Darcy asked, still confused, and clutching his head. "Why… Oh. The rain, was it?"

"Yes, I suppose it _was_ the rain. Shame on you! I have no idea why you didn't seek some sort of shelter, but as a result the entire household has had to deal with our Aunt's wrath, for somehow she blames your foolishness on the rest of us. And poor cousin Anne…"

"Anne?" Darcy frowned. "I…I think I remember her; she was talking to me…"

"More than talking to you! It was Anne who was up most of the night nursing you, because our doctor here had to leave to take care of some other worse-off patient. The servants could have done it, but Anne insisted quite strongly, despite her mother's anger. I must say, she does like you! Are you entirely sure she's as opposed to marriage as you are?"

At this, Darcy shook his head with a smile. "I am quite sure, Fitzwilliam. Indeed, I know for a fact that she fancies another man. I don't know why she would take it upon herself to help me, but I must thank her. The one memory I have of her was very soothing, and I'm sure that she helped me greatly."

Fitzwilliam raised his eyebrows at the news that his cousin admired someone, but he set aside those thoughts for the moment, relaxing into his seat with a smirk. Now that he had conversed with his cousin and could be quite assured that the other man was fine, he felt the need to get back at him for all the worry he'd caused.

"Speaking of women," Fitzwilliam began, not very subtly, "You wouldn't believe what happened when you first collapsed."

Darcy frowned, "What do women have to do with it?"

Fitzwilliam's smirk grew until it covered almost the entire lower half of his face. "Oh, nothing… Just the fact that you somehow mistook me for a certain lady in your delusions, and said quite a few _interesting_ things."

Though Darcy's headache was already easing, it was present enough to make him slightly irritable, and he snapped, "Which woman?" in a very brusque tone.

Fitzwilliam didn't seem bothered by it, however, and he just smirked a few moments longer before grinning and saying, "Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

Darcy's eyes grew wide, and he opened his mouth – but before he could say a word, the door opened, and the servant Fitzwilliam had sent away returned with the food. Darcy remained frozen, staring openmouthed at his cousin until after the Colonel had taken the tray and dismissed the servant once more, only moving when, with a mischievous grin, Fitzwilliam carefully lobbed a grape at him and succeeded in landing it in Darcy's open mouth.

Darcy immediately clamped his lips together, chewing on the grape with an annoyed expression, and as soon as he swallowed it, he asked, "What did I say?"

"Well, what do you _think_ you said?" Fitzwilliam returned, highly amused. However, after a few minutes spent squirming under his cousin's silent but heavy glare, he finally admitted, "Not much, just remarking about the terrible rain we were having – on a bright sunny day, might I add."

Darcy relaxed greatly, reaching for the tray and began to eat, but Fitzwilliam looked contemplative. "I wonder what you thought you had said, though… You looked very nervous once I mentioned it. Is there something you'd like to tell me, Darcy?"

Darcy merely scowled and chewed, briefly shaking his head, and Fitzwilliam laughed. "Yes, I suppose you're right. You've got no secrets from me… Open like a book, you are!"

At this, Darcy rolled his eyes, but he still didn't stoop to answer his cousin. Openly amused again, Fitzwilliam continued, "After all, it isn't as though you've been secretly corresponding with the lady in question…"

_That_ caught Darcy's attention; he looked up with bewilderment written clearly on his face, and Fitzwilliam teasingly dangled the letter he held in the air.

"Here it is, sir, your latest missive, delivered by the Collins-Fitzwilliam mail service!" Fitzwilliam saluted smartly, and then leaned forward to ask, "Now why, good cousin, would the lovely Mrs. Collins be delivering you letters from a certain Miss Bennet as she visited for tea? Is there some secret arrangement I don't know about? Are you finally in love?"

Fitzwilliam had been teasing his cousin, never seriously believing that Darcy was in love with Elizabeth; but upon seeing how the man's face paled as he said it, he halted in shock.

"Wait – you _are?_ You really are in love with her, aren't you?"

Now Darcy's cheeks had gone from pale to flushed in embarrassment, but he didn't look away or even meet Fitzwilliam's eyes, his own fixed on where _To Mr. Darcy_ was penned on the letter.

"No, I'm not," he said unconvincingly, "Give me that letter, please."

And he reached out to snatch it, but Fitzwilliam yanked it back before his fingers could grasp it. "Wait, wait! I'm not handing this over until you admit it out loud." He smirked, believing that to be too much to ask of his prideful cousin; but Darcy did not even hesitate.

"Fine, you've caught me. I'm in love with her. Now give me the letter."

"In love with who?" Fitzwilliam taunted, not letting his shock at Darcy admitting it show.

"For God's sakes, Richard, I'm not in the mood for games!"

At Darcy's angry tone, Fitzwilliam jumped, realizing that he had taken his fun too far. He handed the letter over to its intended recipient, who took it in shaking fingers and gazed at it as though it contained all the wonders of the world.

Darcy was oblivious to his cousin's stare as he gazed at the letter he held, his thoughts in a muddle. Elizabeth had written him? But why – he had been sure that she hated him!

He examined it from every angle, his thoughts racing as he tried to come up with reasons for such a correspondence, scolding his heart not to hope. She probably just –

"Just open it already, Darcy! Good God…" Fitzwilliam's exasperated voice cut through Darcy's musings, and he spared a quick glare for the man before reaching to do just that.

-xxx-

Elizabeth sat in the post carriage quietly looking out the window, her calm countenance not betraying the tumult of her thoughts. All she could think about was how Darcy was probably receiving her letter right now, had he not already; and what would he think of her? Elizabeth was sure that he hated her before reading it at the very least, but could her words possibly convince him of her utter shame and guilt? Could he possibly forgive her, even if he no longer loved her? Perhaps she should have spoken to him in person, but it was far too late now, and with every second that passed, she was farther away from him.

Elizabeth sighed, her melancholy enveloping her despite her attempts to distract herself with the prospect of arriving home to her family, far from the overbearing Lady Catherine and her incredibly disconcerting nephew, Darcy.

And there she was, thinking about him again! She must distract herself! Elizabeth determinedly opened her book, trying to lose herself in its pages and forget all about tall, dark, proud and mysterious men.

But it was no good, and Elizabeth's thoughts wandered time and time again to Darcy, until she eventually fell asleep, leaning against the side of the carriage – and even then, his dark eyes and words of love, rain falling and rapturous kisses, haunted her dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

Aloha! And yes, I know it's been a while, but a) this is longer than normal, and b) I've been updating other things/writing whole new stories in that time, so deal with it. Plus I think you will all like this one a lot. :)

Now, there are a few things I want to say: Regarding Fitzwilliam. Yes, I am aware that he was kinda OOC/out of time frame. Well... You see, he basically doesn't appear in the movie, and I haven't read the book in the while, and now due to fanfics/my own imagination, I've built up this playful personality for him. I dunno. Anne too, a little. I just... write him that way. ~Shrug~

Also, I would like to dedicate this chapter to Nimph, who has brainstormed plot with me and given me awesome reviews and will build me a temple on a mountain someday. Not to mention, I'm betaing her P&P fic - which you should ALL check out. Seriously. It's awesome. Shameless fic-reccing here. It's ID#:4633446

Last but not least, yes, the letter in this chapter IS based off the one in the book - I found an online version and edited it to make it work for Elizabeth, but some of the lines are virtually the same.

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**Lucy:** Thank you! And here you are. :)

**anushca:** Thank you! Glad you do... And yeah, I like the suspense. ;) Of course she is...

**The wanna b: **Thanks! Aw, don't cry...

**EXD-BXE: **Aw, thank you. And yeah, Darcy's incredibly sweet. :)

**sophie: **Eek. I'm gonna hate saying this, but sorry... no can do. She will accept him of course, but not just yet. Maybe he HAS been through enough; that doesn't mean I won't put him through more! ;) Glad to hear you liked it, and yeah. Can sympathize. :)

* * *

Just as Darcy was in the process of opening the envelope, the door banged open, without even the courtesy of a knock. On instinct, the man slid the paper under the bedcovers; and moments later, he was all too glad he had, for the unannounced visitor turned out to be the prestigious Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who would surely have taken it upon herself to read her nephew's letter – and then to soundly berate him for ever proposing to the lady in question. Darcy's headache had only just faded, and he certainly wasn't eager for another one. Still, he couldn't help but he annoyed at his aunt, impatient as he was to read what he had, until only moments ago, held in his hands.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, too, was quite frustrated by his aunt's timely arrival, for he had been very eager to, if not actually know what the letter contained – for he was growing more and more certain that Darcy would never tell him – then at least observe his cousin's reactions and be able to speculate. However, it seemed that was not to be. Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, looking annoyed.

Lady Catherine, upon observing that her favored nephew was wide awake and, indeed, glaring at her, instantly began to scold Fitzwilliam for not informing her sooner that he was awake, and likewise at Darcy for daring to become ill in the first place. Her tirade was quite long, and soon the cousins, as was their wont in such situations, drifted off into their thoughts, occasionally exchanging glances of commiseration.

Darcy was, of course, considering the letter that now lay next to his thigh, well out of sight under the bedcovers. Of course it was welcome, any correspondence from Elizabeth was _welcome_ – but what could it contain? And why on earth had she not just waited to speak to him in person next visit to Rosings? Or was she truly so disgusted by him that she could no longer bear to be in his presence? – but if she were _that_ horrified, what could the letter hold? More testimonies of her hatred? No, Darcy was sure that, however much she might hate him, she was not cruel. But it was equally – or more – unlikely to be a profession of love; she had made that much abundantly clear.

Darcy was well aware of the cyclic directions his thoughts were taking, but he could not stop himself from wondering; and he knew, until he could read that letter, he would keep wondering.

He _must_ read that letter!

Darcy was torn from his musings by a long pause; realizing that he had been asked a question, he cleared his throat and looked at his aunt with worried eyes. He had completely dazed off, so much so that he couldn't even remember what she had last said; and this was saying something, as Darcy had been in the position to train himself, since childhood, to listen to his aunt and respond to her satisfaction, without paying much attention to the conversation. But now, he was completely lost. He glanced at his cousin desperately, and, with a small incline of the head, Fitzwilliam indicated that he should agree.

Quickly turning his eyes to his aunt again, Darcy nodded briefly. "Yes, Aunt Catherine, I – er – quite agree."

The Lady eyed him suspiciously for a long moment before deciding that he had, in fact, been paying attention to her, and said, "Well, then. I shall fetch her directly."

Immediately upon her exiting the room, Darcy turned desperately to Fitzwilliam. "Just what did I agree to?"

Fitzwilliam smirked at him. "Nothing much, just to allow Anne to continue nursing you back to health. And we both know that to refuse _that_ honor would be a dangerous undertaking, indeed."

Momentarily distracted from his thoughts about the letter, Darcy frowned. "But I thought that Aunt Catherine was opposed to the whole thing?"

Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. "Of course she was; but now she's declaring it the best idea she's ever had. You know how she is. But enough of that – open that letter!"

However, Darcy only shook his head.

"Why ever not?" Fitzwilliam cried, his own anxiety to learn more about what was going on taking him over.

Darcy glanced at the door, and spoke haltingly, determined not to give away the events that had passed; though Fitzwilliam knew of his affection for Elizabeth, he was (hopefully) quite unaware of her displeasure with Darcy, and certainly knew nothing of Darcy's failed proposal – and Darcy hoped to keep it that way. "Past events," he said, "have led me to believe that I am going to want both privacy and time to peruse this particular letter; and I cannot foresee receiving either anytime soon."

Darcy sat back, quite pleased with his phrasing, and amused himself watching Fitzwilliam try to puzzle out what his words might mean. He could practically see the questions running through the other man's mind: _what _past events? Was Darcy implying that there had been previous letters, in saying 'this particular letter'? So there really was a secret correspondence? But he'd looked shocked at receiving a letter earlier…

Unfortunately for Fitzwilliam, his questions were not to be answered, for before he could ask one out loud – or even decide if he wished to; Darcy's rage was something to be feared – the door was opened once again and Darcy's prediction was proven true.

There was certainly not going to be any peace in this room for quite some time.

-xxx-

There truly was no appropriate word for how Elizabeth felt upon seeing her home again. _Joy_ didn't seem to quite convey the ecstasy in her heart – and yet, at the same time, she felt a deep desolation, brought about by – as near as she could figure – the fact that nothing had changed.

Indeed, nothing had – her mother was the same as ever, as were her younger sisters, though they paid her more attention for an hour or so until the glamours of her travel wore off. Her father, on the other hand, merely gave her a long hug and sincerely thanked her for her return before retreating to his study – and somehow, whereas otherwise it might have comforted her, Elizabeth was ashamed by this. She had undergone such a momentous change in her view of the world, and yet the things she saw had not changed. Only her perception of them had; and it had certainly not changed for the better.

Almost every word out of Mrs. Bennet's mouth now made Elizabeth cringe, imagining how poor Darcy would feel, hearing such things. Kitty, Lydia, and even Mary's behaviour likewise embarrassed her, to the point that, as soon as she managed to secure some free time in her room to unpack her things, (she had told Hill she was perfectly fine doing it on her own) Elizabeth sank down on her bed and wept into her hands.

Unconsciously, she had believed that things would be different upon her return; and now, the unchangedness of everything had awoken her to the possibility that _nothing _would change. Elizabeth didn't think she could bear it, if Darcy read her letter and still thought no better of her – but now, having arrived in her home, it seemed more and more likely.

She wasn't quite sure why it mattered so _much_ to her; but Elizabeth was now desperate to, once more, be (at least in Darcy's eyes) all those lovely words he had whispered to her on beginning his second proposal.

The second proposal… It seemed as though that second proposal had completely wiped away the first one; for now, thinking of his arrogant words, Elizabeth could not even summon up more than a slight disappointment. Indeed, she was finding it hard to conjure up _any_ bad feelings toward Darcy at all, perhaps even to the extent of having good thoughts instead – and that was a slippery slope indeed to be standing near.

Elizabeth had come to the conclusion that it was impossible for her to feel halfway about the man, for nothing she did seemed to stop the traitorous thoughts of his kiss. When she had hated him, she had hated him fully, with little reason but with great satisfaction, and now she feared the tides had turned the other way, and she might soon find herself loving him – loving him with great reason, surely, but never with satisfaction, as Darcy must hate her now.

Yes, Elizabeth could not seem to hope for anything more than contempt from the man, no matter her letter; she was resolved upon this fact before even a single sleepless night had passed in her childhood bed. Her only hope now was to nip this attraction in the bud. Elizabeth knew that at the moment, all she felt was guilt and admiration for the man he'd turned out to be, but her feelings were quite capable of progressing rapidly from there, despite what she had said in her letter.

Her only recourse now was to forget about him, just as Jane had with Bingley. Although of course, it would be easier for her, seeing as she did not love the man in question already.

Elizabeth did not let herself think about how Jane had been so uncharacteristically quiet and melancholy since, even in her letters.

Elizabeth finally drifted off to sleep, very late the night of her return, her heart heavy with resolve. She would avoid all conversation of the man and not dwell on him in her thoughts, and he would be nothing but a memory before a month had passed, certainly.

But even she could not control her dreams.

-xxx-

_Finally,_ Darcy thought eagerly. _Alone at last!_

He had been in quest of such a situation the whole day long, but it was difficult, as he was on bed-rest (the doctor's orders) and therefore incapable of leaving his visitors behind. He could always just ask for privacy – but he had tried that, and it only resulted in Lady Catherine scolding him all the more to hurry his healing, even as she summoned servant after servant to attend to him. Anne calmly turned them all away, saying they were unneeded, but Lady Catherine was the one person who neither she nor Darcy could successfully get rid of – and she was the one determined to stay.

Finally, she had left for dinner, leaving Anne (who had complained of a headache just strong enough to keep her from eating the public meal, but slight enough for her to continue to watch her cousin) with Darcy. And now, he might finally get his chance!

But first, he needed to ask Anne to leave the room. Which meant he would have to tell her about the letter, especially if he wanted her to stall anyone trying to enter – which he certainly did, as Darcy didn't think he could bear being halted halfway through such a correspondence.

Darcy didn't particularly wish to inform his cousin – _either_ of his cousins – of his failed proposal, but at the very least, he would have to offer up the information that he cared deeply about the woman who had written the letter, and Darcy thought he could do that; after all, he'd already foolishly admitted it to Fitzwilliam.

But the problem was his cousin's feelings. Darcy had no wish to hurt Anne by asking her, to her face, to aid him with another woman! He would not have worried about this normally, as he had always been under the impression that she wished to marry him exactly as much as he hoped to wed her; that was, not at all. However, Anne's concern and care throughout his illness worried him, as much as he appreciated it. He desperately hoped that she had not developed any romantic affection towards him, as he knew that he would never marry her.

So Darcy was confused as to how to approach the subject; and yet, he could not let that stop him, for he wanted to waste no more precious time – he wanted to read that letter!

He cleared his throat, and began. "Cousin Anne, I would like to ask you a question."

Across the room, Anne raised her head from her book and raised her eyebrows quizzically. "What is it, Will?"

In the past, his childhood nickname had always been a reassurance to hear from Anne's lips, for it meant that she still thought of him as just her cousin, her playmate before she became too sickly to play outside much – and not a suitor. Now, too, it calmed most of Darcy's fears, and he smiled slightly as he spoke. "I was wondering if you would leave the room, and give me some privacy for a while? Forgive my rudeness," he added quickly.

"Of course not; but why do you want me gone? Have I done something?" Anne inquired nervously, and this time Darcy could not restrain a fond smile. In so many ways she reminded him of Georgiana! If only she had been raised at Pemberley, away from her controlling mother, Darcy was sure that she would me much more like his sister.

"It's nothing you've done wrong… More of what you've done _right_," Darcy blurted out, almost instantly regretting himself.

"What do you mean, what I've do – oh," Anne's face lit up with understanding, and almost instantly, she shook her head. "Of course not!"

With those firm three words, Anne answered Darcy's silent question, and he relaxed almost instantly. She continued: "Of course I cared for you, Will! You are my favorite cousin after all, and I am very familiar with what makes the ill feel better. You think I would not want to ease your pain?"

Relief made Darcy a bit more open than usual, and he remarked, "Favorite cousin? Fitzwilliam will be devastated," in a voice that sounded clearly of affectionate teasing.

Anne just sighed and shook her head, smiling, not bothering to rise to the bait. "But I ask again, what is it that prompts this need for privacy?"

Darcy's face grew closed off once more, but it was easy for Anne to see the pain in it. "You may have heard from Fitzwilliam already, that I – I… admired our guest, Miss Bennet," Darcy spoke hesitantly, obviously hiding something. "Well, I have received a letter from her. That I would like to read. Alone." He finished in brisk, clipped sentences, and averted his gaze from his cousin's.

However, it was easy for Anne – both very familiar with Darcy's nature, and a practiced study of human behaviour – to guess the meaning behind his words. For Darcy to even _admit_ that he admired a woman was high praise indeed, and the blush that tinted his cheeks when he said so led her to believe that it was much more than admiration that he felt. Not to mention, is he was receiving letters from the lady in question, there must be some sort of arrangement.

Heart swelling with hope that she might soon see her reclusive cousin happy – and somewhat selfishly awaiting the day that her mother's matrimonial hopes for her were dashed – Anne smiled and consented to leave the room, saying that she would try to give him privacy as long as possible.

Darcy thanked her and watched her go, gently closing the door behind her. He was incredibly glad that he had not needed to tell her the whole story; his failed proposal(s) were far too painful for him to contemplate at the moment, let alone speak of. Indeed, had it not been for this letter, Darcy was quite sure that he would be wallowing in sorrow right now. As it was, however…

Darcy pulled the letter from under his pillow, where he had hidden it earlier in the day, and stared long and hard at it, eyes devouring the words written on the front: _To Mr. Darcy_.

He especially liked the way she wrote her _D_, with an elegant curve, and the line slightly overlapping itself in a curl… How wonderful it would be, to see her signing letters by that name, her elegant script spelling out _Elizabeth Darcy_.

Darcy caught himself in his daydreams and forcibly shook them out of his head. She hated him! She had refused him! He _must_ get that into his head!

Darcy gently traced the letters with his hand before abruptly turning the envelope over, and unfolding it to withdraw the papers within. However, his hand paused in the act of reaching inside, and somehow, he couldn't force himself to make it pull out the several papers he felt there.

What was wrong with him? All day he had agonized over what might be in this letter, eagerly awaited the moment when he might read it, plotted until he could – and now he couldn't bring himself to unfold it! Why?

Darcy knew, however. He was afraid, understandably afraid, of what Elizabeth Bennet might say to him. Her previous words had already haunted his dreams and Darcy knew that had it not been for his illness, he would be long gone by now, home to Pemberley to distract himself from his sorrow, to heal. Darcy knew that he would not truly recover for some time, if ever – and he could feel the sorrow building up in him even now, the depressing cry of _she hates me!_

God, _the last man!_ What words to torture with! How the idea haunted him with its implications, the hatred necessary to aim such barbed words at another and let fly! Darcy could not bear it. Surely whatever he read could not make his pain worse – and mayhap it would do the opposite. He could but try.

Thus resolved, and moving quickly before his courage failed him, Darcy withdrew his hand from the envelope and unfolded the papers. The letter read as thus:

_Be not alarmed, Sir, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those rebukes, which were last night so painful for you, beyond what I deem absolutely necessary. I write without any intention of paining you, or myself, by dwelling on such pains, but I feel that this must be spoken of and been done with, for the happiness of both, so that it may then be forgotten; and the effort of writing this would be wasted if you would not take the time to peruse it, and had my character not required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly now, but I demand it of your justice._

_Three offenses of very different natures, and of varying degrees of magnitude, I laid at your feet last night. The first being that you willfully detached Mr. Bingley from my sister, even knowing of her and his regard for the other; the second that, even despite various claims, and in defiance of both honour and humanity, you ruined the immediate prosperity and destroyed the prospects of Mr. Wickham. The third and final of my accusations towards you was perhaps less plainly spoken, but I am shamefully aware of how clear I made it throughout the course of our conversation – that your character was flawed in many ways and I could neither respect nor ever marry you._

_Before I say any more, Mr. Darcy, I must apologize profusely for the severity of my words and the vitriolic way which they were spoken, which I, now calmed, can not believe were deserved. Also, if, in the explanation of them and of my current feelings, I am under the necessity of relating more offensive words, I can only say how sorry I am. But it must be done, and further apology would do us neither any good, so I shall begin._

_First, I feel it necessary to address the topic of Mr. Wickham, on whose behalf I hated you quite viciously – of this topic, I have so much to say, but the words are choked in my throat and my fingers cannot wield my pen long enough to express them all. The most I can say is how truly wrong I now realize I was. Of what he spoke of you, I will not weight you; all I will say is that you were quite correct of the gist of it and my heart quickly grew sympathetic to his apparent plight. –You may not be able to forgive me for such foolishness as I displayed, and my only defense can be that despite my age and clever words, I have not known any truly bad men (or very many men at all), and was, in my own way, quite innocent of their ways. I am also ashamed to admit that the man's charm and handsomeness won me over with the rest of Hertfordshire, whereas your reserved looks and your first comment about me that I overheard (both which I shall address later) prejudiced me to believe the worst of you quite eagerly, when I would have questioned it in any other. Still, this is no excuse, and I do not expect you to forgive me with just it to aid my case._

_I shall end the discussion of such events now with a statement that may be painful for you to read, as it reminds you of such unpleasant events as you felt compelled to inform me of last night. I feel it necessary to explain what brought about such a sudden change in my feelings towards Mr. Wickham, whom I'm now convinced is quite the villain. Simply put, Sir, I cannot imagine you to ever be able to make up such horrible things, especially in relation to your sister, who – it was plain in your face when you spoke of her – is very dear to your heart. Not to mention, even without any previous knowledge of his slanders, your account matched up with his; it was but the complete version of an unfinished painting, and the landscape much darker than I had presumed. Indeed, it was this account of yours that, upon reflection, began to change my opinion of you, and led me to examine all of my feelings for you in depth –but I shall come to that later. Here I must simply add how brave your sister must be, and how horribly it must have hurt to know that your rival had struck again and turned so many against you, (for Mr. Wickham's accusations, admittedly in little detail, spread all through the town of Hertfordshire) and for that too I am sorry._

_I will turn, then, to my third accusation: that of your character. Reading this part of the letter is sure to insult you, but I feel it necessary to address at length how I felt about you, so as to properly explain how differently I feel now. –When I first saw you, I have to admit no immediate dislike, although I confess that my propensity to seek out and amuse myself with human fault did call to attention your pride –it did not occur until you made that remark about my looks to Mr. Bingley, the subject of which I'm sure you did not mean to hear you, but who most certainly did, and was, I must admit, very offended. I decided upon the spot to dislike you, and as time passed it only became easier for me. Your obvious disdain, your brooding silence whenever in company, and your heavy stare, which felt disapproving to me, thought it may have been meant differently, all helped me along; and Mr. Wickham's false account of your misdeeds was only the proof I felt I needed. Since then, I have steadfastly hated you, never once wavering, and my (perhaps badly-timed) discovery of what you did to my sister, which occurred at most an hour before your proposal, drove me over the edge. –Pardon my bluntness, Sir, and be reassured that I do not feel so now._

_Since you left me at my dear friend's doorstep last night, my thoughts have been in such a turmoil that I can hardly hear anything else; but upon forcing myself to sit down and think logically through my feelings for you, for once attempting to prove that you were __**not**__ horrid, I discovered a shocking fact: I have no basis to hate you. –You see, many of my objections against your behaviour were well-founded – you, Sir, were unrepentantly rude this summer in Hertfordshire and I will not deny that or excuse you from it – but they still did not give me any true basis to hate you so. Once I had dismissed the resentment on behalf of Mr. Wickham, I found that most my remaining feelings were founded solely on my __**own**__ pride, insulted by your remark; and that is hardly the way to judge the whole of a man's character. Therefore I felt it was the least I could do to excuse your pride, for mine was obviously not inconsiderable either. Your rudeness I realized I had also misjudged when, in my efforts to excuse you, I remembered a statement you made not long ago. Though I still believe that you ought to practice such a useful skill as conversing with strangers, I can not hate you on that basis. Nor can I on your feelings towards my family. I love them dearly and hate to admit their fault; but in this instance I must concede the truth of your argument. Thus all my objections to you fell, one by one, before logic. However much I enjoyed disliking you, I can do so no longer._

_However, I have not yet addressed the issue of my sister. I do not resent you for your actions, Mr. Darcy, nor do I hate you for them; but I am afraid that I can never find it in my heart to look on you with anything more kind inside me as long as this goes uncorrected, no matter how badly I myself have wronged you. You have destroyed the happiness of my dearest sister and your own closest friend – this __**must**__ be rectified. Sir, I beg of you: go to Mr. Bingley and tell him the truth, as you said you would last night. If he does not go to Jane then so be it, but do not take the decision to go after love away from him. I shall not tell Jane, for I could not bear it if she knew and grew yet more miserable when he never returned. It all rests on you, Mr. Darcy. I truly do believe that I could like you if I tried, once I no longer saw my weeping sister every time I looked into your eyes._

_You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then in control of myself enough to know how I felt, much less what I ought to tell you. I leave early tomorrow for Hertfordshire – I feel that I must, as to stay here any longer would cause us both unnecessary pain. I shall endeavour to find some way to pass this letter along to your hands before I go._

_I can only add, as you did last night, God bless you._

_Elizabeth Bennet_


	5. Chapter 5

Hey, everybody! Sorry it's been so long! No, I didn't die... just writer's block. I got through one Elizabeth and one Darcy part for this chapter, and then... nothing. But I've finally broken through it, AND found time to actually write out the chapter (been swamped with school stuff lately), so yay. Okay, a few notes:

1) I'm sorry, but I keep track of which reviews I have and have not answered in email, and I recently had issues with mine... Suffice to say that I will not be responding to any individual reviews that I haven't yet, except for ones that I receive after this chapter. Sorry.

2) It's come to my attention (thanks, Nimph!) that the timeline for this can be a little confusing, with the switching viewpoints. I have thus made a document for myself, in which I keep track of what events happen at what days of the story, along with the approximate time of day of each event. For instance, the last part of chapter 4 would be labeled as follows... **Day Three: Darcy (4c) [evening -letter]**. In other words, **Day: person (chapter and chapter section) [time of day -events]**. If anyone wants a copy of this timeline, just let me know in a PM and I can send it to you as a DocX delivery.

3) I pretty much stole an entire conversation from the book this time, and edited it to fit my own purposes. Please forgive me. Also, please forgive the not-very-dramatic chapter end.

4) I have hereby changed Anne's nickname for Darcy to Will. Thanks, TastelessRain. And also thanks to Nimph, for betaing the first half of this chapter and helping me with that writer's block. :)

Okay, enjoy the story!

* * *

Elizabeth Bennet froze in her tracks, shocked, her cheeks coloring and her breath quickening. Somehow, all this time, she had been so preoccupied with Darcy that the possibility of _this_ occurring had never even crossed her mind.

Indeed, she _had_ been preoccupied with Darcy today; despite her resolve not to think of him, especially in any sort of fond way, her thoughts inevitably ended on the man, and though she managed to distract herself swiftly each time, her dreams were a different matter. Both Darcy's words and kiss, his embrace and his rejection, repeated through her mind, becoming mixed up with new images, conjured up from her imagination, of alternative outcomes; these outcomes ranged from as simple as her accepting his suit the second time, to him kissing her again, to such ridiculous scenes as Darcy arriving miraculously in Hertfordshire, because he had received her letter and wished to propose yet again.

All of these things, and more, had occurred to Elizabeth; had been dwelt on, wistfully wished for, and then rejected – all these, and more.

But the one thing that Elizabeth had forgotten entirely about, though it, unlike the others, was a real possibility, had actually come true. It had taken her quite by surprise, and now she was very unsure of how to handle it; but she was pressed for time, and if she did not want the situation to swerve completely out of her control, she must come up with something. But she must remain proper in her decorum and not anger him, for now that she knew his true nature, she was unsure of the lengths he would go to for revenge.

For it was true; Wickham was before her, smiling and waving, and rapidly approaching speaking distance.

-xxx-

Darcy slowly let his hands, holding the letter, fall to the bedspread, his eyes dazed and unfocused. He honestly had no idea how to interpret this, how to react to it; how to feel about it.

Some parts of the letter gave him hope, hope that he had thought lost forever after her brutal refusals; and yet others tore deep at his soul, wounding him even deeper than he would have guessed possible. Darcy had been wrong, quite wrong: what he read could and had made his pain worse, unbearably so.

And yet, at the same time, her words had soothed him, had made Darcy's breath catch with hope as he read of her changed emotions. One such sentence, however, was also one of the worst barbs: _I truly do believe that I could like you if I tried, once I no longer saw my weeping sister every time I looked into your eyes._

While the first part made Darcy mad with joy, ready to propose again, to ride over immediately, the second part made him droop back down in shame and disappointment; and indeed, on a third read, even the first part of the sentence was not so hope-inducing. _I could like you if I tried._

Every sentence in the letter was such a double-edged sword; treacherous yet well worth the danger; a contradiction in sentiments; causing his emotions to go into a whirlpool of confusion.

At reading the letter a third time, Darcy noticed the mention of her leaving, and realized that he had missed her; the pure agony that ripped through his soul at that moment is incapable of expression; and yet, the next instant he read that she no longer hated him and, provided he fix things with Bingley, was willing to try – perhaps to try to accept his feelings, perhaps even return; perhaps just acknowledge. Darcy's spirits soared at such a thought; and so the confusion continued.

Anne managed to grant him his privacy into the night, and Darcy sat long, rereading and deeply examining and interpreting every word of the letter, until eventually even his fierce love could keep him awake no longer, and, carefully replacing the letter and hiding it under his pillow, he slept; one hand under his head to touch it and reassure himself that it was real.

-xxx-

"Mr. Wickham!"

Elizabeth was honestly shocked at the sight of the man before her, and panicked; so much so, in fact, that her voice, as she spoke his name, displayed none of the more negative emotions that she felt for him with such intensity; and so, upon hearing her cry, (and observing her flushed cheeks and quick breath to mean quite a different thing than they did) Wickham went so far as to assume the opposite; that Elizabeth's voice was full of liking, of a great intensity. He was not the first man to make such a mistake, as a certain other gentleman had managed to so long deceive himself of the feeling behind Elizabeth's words and looks; but perhaps _he_ may be excused, for he was quite infatuated – and in addition, had never received any _genuinely_ friendly looks by which to measure less welcoming ones.

Wickham had no such excuse, as he had been held in great esteem (though certainly not as great as he now imagined) mere weeks prior, and really ought to have been able to tell the difference. Overconfidence, however, was one of his numerous faults, and that, combined with his remembrance of the lady's hatred of Darcy, convinced him that Elizabeth still thought highly of him; indeed, that her opinion had only grown better with the separation. And so he greeted her warmly, perhaps more warmly than was altogether proper.

"Why, my dear Miss Elizabeth!" he cried, swiftly approaching and coming to a halt in front of her. "What an unexpected pleasure it is to see you! I assure you madam, had I known that you had returned, I would have made it a priority to call upon you sooner. Or are you fresh in town?"

Elizabeth, for her part, was still in shock, and struggling with the loathing that welled up deep within her on the sight of him, trying not to release any of it. She knew not what he might do to her should he find out that she knew all of his misdeeds… and for the moment they were quite alone, having encountered each-other on the road from Meryton to Longbourn. If only she had not left Kitty and Lydia behind in the ribbon-shop, the awkwardness of this meeting could be lessened!

Recovering, she smiled weakly. "Oh, no sir, please don't feel guilty; for I am just recently arrived in town; only yesterday. I admit, it is a pleasure to see you so soon after my arrival."

Having spoken such a bald-faced lie, Elizabeth swallowed, but continued to smile falsely. Though she may be _his_ enemy, she did not want Wickham to be _hers_ if she could help it.

Wickham, entirely unaware of his companion's inner turmoil, charmingly offered his arm. "Well then, may I offer to escort you wherever it is that you are going, so that we may both prolong this enjoyable meeting?"

Elizabeth looked down with disgust on the arm that had undoubtedly escorted many other oblivious women, but took it nonetheless, showing none of her emotions. "That sounds exceedingly pleasant. Would you care to walk with me to Longbourn, sir, and once there perhaps take some tea?"

-xxx-

The first thing Darcy did upon waking was to read the letter once more, wracking his brain for as many underlying meanings as he could find in it. Once more, he bemoaned the fact that Elizabeth was gone, and that he himself was ill; though he already felt better than the day before.

Darcy dreaded another day in bed; but it seemed he had no choice. Anne came in soon with his breakfast, and the doctor accompanied her. After a brief inspection, he expressed his belief that all Darcy needed was another day or two of rest, until he was quite fit to walk about again. When Darcy asked about travel, he was further dismayed to learn that he should not travel anywhere for at least a week. He argued quite fiercely with the man, but it was no use; those were the doctor's orders, and Aunt Catharine had already been informed.

Resolved to his fate, Darcy set about trying to amuse himself for the time being, but it was difficult; never an impatient man in the past, he found himself itching for movement, and his mind could not seem to absorb more than three words of any given book before he gave up on it. Throughout the day he continued to sneak in readings of the letter, in between Aunt Catharine's visits.

Of course, then there was the matter of Fitzwilliam and Anne to consider. Darcy had no doubt that they had spoken to each-other while he was otherwise occupied, learning both sides of the tale, and no doubt puzzling over what it could all mean. After all, for an unmarried or un-betrothed man and young lady (who weren't related) to be exchanging letters was hardly proper behaviour, and Darcy had always been the model of proper behaviour, even in his private moments. Moreover, they might be suspicious of why he and Elizabeth had not been more friendly on the days when they had previously interacted, had they had enough of a relationship to justify sending letters. Knowing Fitzwilliam, such wild stories as a secret engagement had probably already been suggested and (thanks to Anne's slightly more practical nature) discarded.

What on earth could Darcy do about them? He didn't think he would be able to accurately explain his relationship with Elizabeth to anyone, let alone two people he knew so well. He could certainly try, but he was reluctant to do even that, as the entire matter was deeply humiliating for Darcy, for several reasons.

There was, of course, the most obvious: that he had proposed and been refused, _twice_, by this country lady, of only moderate fortune and no great accomplishments. However, Darcy could no longer even think of such things without instantly berating himself for her sake. Though in the earlier days, when he had been trying to deny his feelings for her, he had often insulted Elizabeth Bennet to himself, he could no longer slander her in such a way without feeling intense guilt.

And Darcy was privately ashamed for several other reasons as well; his bold assumption that Elizabeth was in love with him only one of many. He felt horrible for his quick judgments of Jane and the rest of the Bennets, though even Elizabeth had conceded in her letter that he had not been wrong in his assessment of most of them; it was still careless and rude of him. And another thing she had mentioned in her letter haunted him; his 'obvious disdain' and 'brooding silence whenever in company', which would not normally have bothered Darcy in the slightest (while he prided himself on being polite, he had never claimed, nor indeed ever been accused of, being friendly), tortured Darcy with regret, as Elizabeth had informed him in her letter that they had been key to her eventual hate of him. Had he only been less reclusive, perhaps – but it would not do to dwell on what might have been.

Despite this thought, Darcy could not stop his thoughts from wandering frequently to Elizabeth, and the one major interaction she and he had had at the temple, which she had not even mentioned.

The kiss.

Darcy knew very well that it had been wrong of him to do such a thing, but by lunchtime he had given up entirely on even attempting to care. To actually experience, however briefly, her lips under his, the feel of her in his arms… how could Darcy regret such a thing? And how could he, despite her many harsh words, not take comfort from the fact that she had kissed him back? Certainly, she had slapped him on his second proposal, which was a certain refusal and punishment had he ever seen one, and which had, at the time, drained all hope out of him. However, she had then contradicted that action with her letter – that cursed, blessed letter – and, considering the way she had kissed him back and then later written that she could bring herself to like him, Darcy could not help but have hope. Surely, once he had repaired the situation with Bingley, he could persuade her to accept him once more? It might take time and effort, yes, but Elizabeth was worth all the time and effort in the world.

Upon concluding this, Darcy became even more impatient; eager to leap out of bed and ride straight to London, the sooner to having Elizabeth in his arms once more; but the doctor had said that he could not travel for a week, and Darcy could hardly attempt such a thing on his own.

No, for the time being he was stuck in bed, unable to think of anything but Elizabeth and how he might make things better (and, alternately when he felt more despondent, how terrible things had become and how foolish he had been), without hope of _doing_ anything about it.

Darcy groaned in frustration and set his book down for what must be the hundredth time since morning, glaring at the wall and cursing the doctor. It seemed he must resign himself to his fate; and as long as he was trapped here, what could he do but plan to make things better? Starting with Bingley.

Darcy had just begun to consider how he might best go about breaking the news to Bingley, such thoughts as how much alcohol should be imbibed beforehand, if any; whether he should tell Bingley of his sister's involvement; and how long he might expect to be on the receiving end of Bingley's displeasure included among his musings, when there was a soft knock, and the door opened.

Darcy glanced up to find that both Fitzwilliam and Anne had entered his room, and inwardly groaned again. He had no idea what to tell them; he couldn't leave the room; and worst of all, they were both smiling at him, looking particularly cunning.

-xxx-

Never had she been so exhausted by a simple tea before.

The main problem was Elizabeth herself, as Wickham had certainly been amiable enough so far. Still, whenever she found herself beginning to relax or fall prey to his easy charms, she remembered Darcy's words, and the clear disgust on his face as he spoke of terrible crimes, and Elizabeth found herself hard-pressed to hold back from informing Wickham of her utter disgust.

However, she was wiser than that, and Elizabeth restrained herself every time, instead making comments about the weather, or the town, or other such harmless things; and Wickham never suspected a thing, firmly entrenched as he was in the belief that Elizabeth was simply flustered by his presence.

The true test of Elizabeth's restraint came not too long after she had finally begun to believe she was fine, when Wickham first mentioned Darcy. She had just finished informing the man of her visit to her dear friend, who was married to the clergyman Mr. Collins. At the name, Wickham surprisingly showed signs of recognition, and asked in confusion whether he knew the man; unthinking, Elizabeth explained who he was, and as soon as she mentioned the name of Collins's patron, Wickham smiled.

"Ah yes, of course, Lady Catharine." Wickham smiled conspiratorially at Elizabeth over his teacup. "I'm sure you're unaware of this, my dear, but the Lady is actually the aunt of –"

"Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth asked, her lips quirking in amusement at the surprise on Wickham's face. "Why, certainly I know. He, and his cousin the Colonel Fitzwilliam, also happened to be visiting Rosings at the same time I was there. Do you know the Colonel, by chance? I found him a very pleasant man."

"I – certainly, I used to know him, but I am afraid I do not find much opportunity to share company with the man; he is, after all, cousin to Mr. Darcy, and I do not wish to cause any of them trouble." Wickham hesitated, looking slightly nervous, though it was clear that he affected to hide it beneath an indifferent tone and a charming smile. "May I inquire, then – you spent much time with Colonel Fitzwilliam?"

"Oh yes, much. He and Mr. Darcy were at Rosings for almost as long as I was – they are still there now, to the best of my knowledge. And I saw them most every day; near three weeks in all."

"Ah yes, well, his manners a very different from his cousin's; I imagine that you found his friendship a relief in other, less enjoyable company." Wickham smiled conspiratorially at Elizabeth, clearly referring to Darcy.

Hate rose up in the woman, but she quashed it down instantly, not allowing it to show upon her face. Perhaps, had she had more time to think things over, Elizabeth would have found herself more able to deal with Wickham, and likely less worried for her own safety. However, it had been scarcely three days since she learned the truth of the man, and what with her own conflicting emotions towards another certain gentleman, Elizabeth had not given Wickham much thought; indeed, she had almost entirely forgotten him after having written her letter to Darcy, until she had seen him approaching her on the path several hours ago. Given such circumstances, Elizabeth was unprepared to discuss Darcy with Wickham, and as such remained silent for quite some time, lost in distressed thoughts, until he finally broke the silence himself, concerned.

"What is it? Have I said something to offend you?" he asked, and Elizabeth blinked, startled out of her thoughts.

"Forgive me, sir," she smiled at Wickham. "I was just pondering that statement; for though I agree that the two cousins are very different, I could not help but notice that Mr. Darcy in fact improves himself upon greater acquaintance."

"Indeed!" Wickham cried, clearly very shocked, before recovering quickly. "Well, might I hope that he has finally deigned to inject some semblance of civility into his general address? For surely," Wickham smiled conspiratorially at Elizabeth again, leaning forward and lowering his voice slightly, for all that they were the only ones in the room; Mrs. Bennet having left not long ago to attend to a household matter, and the reclusive Mary escaping soon after. "I cannot expect him to have improved in essentials."

Elizabeth blushed slightly. No, he certainly had not changed in essentials; merely her perception of the man. But his manners, at least those directed towards her, had undergone such a _drastic_ change…

"No," she said quietly. "I do believe that he is, in essentials, much as he has always been."

Wickham, who was understandably concerned for what Elizabeth might next observe about Darcy, leaned even closer, eyes trained intently on hers. The steady gaze unnerved Elizabeth, and her already present blush grew. She sat back in her seat after a moment, and cleared her throat before saying, "But no, sir, all I meant to imply was that he seemed more pleasant in such a setting. Perhaps it was the influence of his family."

This moment in the conversation was very important to both persons, each for a different reason. Elizabeth, of course, was shocked at what she had said; and yet, at the same time, she was rather pleased. Certainly, it wasn't painting a very honest picture of Darcy, but Elizabeth knew that she would need more time, to compose herself at the very least, before she attempted such a task; and Wickham was the absolute worst person to first inform of her changed opinions. Moreover, Elizabeth had no idea how the man would respond to such a declaration; just as with Darcy, she needed time to think on it, before she would feel ready to confront him. And if she did later, she need not worry about having lied to him now; surely one brief falsification could not change anything for the worse.

Wickham too was pleased, and his reasons were twofold: firstly, he had not missed Elizabeth's blushing, and observing that it had only occurred when their eyes met and he leaned closer to her, he then concluded that she really _was_ fond of him, something for which Wickham was very satisfied. And secondly, he was of course gratified to have it confirmed that she still found Darcy as repugnant a man as before.

"Yes, that must be it," he agreed, all anxiety wiped from his face. "His aunt is a woman of whom he has always both feared and awed; and his behaviour around her reflects it. And of course, he is always eager to present himself as a pleasant suitor in order to forward his match to the young Miss de Bourgh."

Elizabeth's eyes widened at what she was personally very certain was an outright lie, as Darcy had shown absolutely no inclination to offer his hand to the sickly Anne; but to _her_ instead. However, she was saved from commenting on this by the timely reentrance of her mother. Mrs. Bennet bustled into the room, chatting happily and soon followed by Elizabeth's two sillier sisters, back from shopping; and with an apologetic smile towards Elizabeth, Wickham stood, pronouncing that he had better be off, having promised to meet Denny some time ago.

He produced a ribbon for each Lydia and Kitty, who, despite having spent most of the day in a ribbon shop already, soon began to squabble over who got which one, and drew Elizabeth aside with him to the door.

"I'm terribly sorry, but I must go," he said, grinning, and even Elizabeth, knowing about his terrible crimes, couldn't help but smile back, amused at his easy handling of her sisters. Wickham looked even more pleased at her smile, and bowed gallantly, giving her hand a kiss.

"Until next time, Miss Elizabeth," he said, exiting.

The moment the door shut, Elizabeth's smile dropped off her face, and she rubbed vigorously at her hand. Ugh, that man! He was revolting – but what to do about it?

She went up to her room (passing the still shrilly arguing Kitty and Lydia on the way), sitting on her bed and hugging a pillow. If only Jane were here, and not in London. She knew that if she could just talk the whole matter out with Jane, she would be able to figure out what ought to be done about the situation. But as it was, she was alone – and for once, Elizabeth found her mind blank of ideas. Without her older sister to confide in, and without her confidence in her own judgment (for she had lost _that_ in that fateful conversation with Darcy), Elizabeth was paralyzed, afraid of making the wrong decision.

Elizabeth remained in her room until she was called down for dinner, lost in thoughts; but still failed to make a decision, trapped in incertitude.

* * *

About the last word... I discovered this awesome website, called Save the Words, which contains awesome words that are dropping out of use. For example... _Literatorian_, which means _subtle_. Anyway, I've decided to use one a chapter, if I can. _Incertitude_ is my way of starting out small; it just means _uncertainty_.


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